


'tis the season to be jolly

by sylleblossom (kemonomimi)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas Party, Crack, Deck the Halls, F/M, Holidays, Implications of Sephiroth/Angeal/Genesis, Innocent Sephiroth/Angeal/Genesis if you want, M/M, Multi, Not Beta'd We Die like Aerith, Office Party, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Reno/Elena if you squint, Shinra Holiday 2020, Snowed In, Stream of Consciousness, let it snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28079448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemonomimi/pseuds/sylleblossom
Summary: holiday drabble collection for shinra holiday 2020
Relationships: Angeal Hewley & Genesis Rhapsodos & Sephiroth, Elena & Reno (Compilation of FFVII), Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28
Collections: Shinra Holiday 2020





	1. fa la la la la la

**Author's Note:**

> elena tries to trap tseng beneath the mistletoe, but plans go awry. prompt: deck the halls.

“Ya know, Laney, it looks like you’re hanging that mistletoe in a specific route,” Reno remarks lazily from his desk, legs kicked up on top of it and paperwork scattered on the floor haphazardly. 

The sudden voice startles her enough that she almost loses balance on the chair beneath the doorway. She knew he was there, scribbling away at some boring dossier but by the casual ease he is draped over his seat and desk, she knows he grew bored enough to put it on pause.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, unaware of the pink, spotty flush climbing her neck and over the collar of her suit. 

The smallest of the Turks finishes tying the plant in place and hops down from her makeshift step-ladder. She nods once to herself, satisfied by the state of the boughs of holly interwoven with mistletoe over the doorways of part of the Turk floor. 

“Couldn’t be more obvious that you’re marking the path the Chief usually takes to his office, ‘Lena.” When she glances back at him with narrowed eyes, he is chewing on a piece of gum. 

“I did not—”

“If you two have the energy to bicker, you have the energy to finish your paperwork. I have field missions piling up on my desk and Rude is the only one with clearance at the moment because of unwarranted procrastination.” Tseng appears from another door. It lacks mistletoe and dangling green fake boughs of holly. His dark eyebrows arch in the direction of the two Turks pointedly.

“You don’t need to worry about decorations, Elena,” He continues, noting the chair and the petite Turk who stands beside it, “The task has already been assigned to secretarial interns.” When the director disappears into his office, Elena curses herself for missing that particular door in her haste.

A bubble pops. “Looks like your plan was foiled, Laney.” 

Disappointed, she folds the metal chair and tucks it beneath her arm to stow away. “... Was it really that obvious?”

“Yup,” another pink bubble pops and her brows furrow, wishing just once Reno would show some actual sympathy towards her failure instead of arching his brows and smirking like a cat with a bowl of cream. 

Shoulders drooping, she crosses the threshold to look for the closet of extra chairs but finds her sleeve tugged hard enough that the chair plummets to the floor with a loud clatter and she is flush against a lean, muscular chest instead. “Reno what—”

Elena does not get to finish her inquiry, instead finding herself with a finger crooked under her chin and lips that taste like bubblegum against hers. “Stood under the mistletoe, Laney. Gotta follow traditions, yeah?”

Her knee-jerk reaction as soon as she feels the burn in her cheeks is a swift, hard punch to the solar plexus, which is unexpected enough that Reno goes tumbling into the hall beneath the hanging garlen. “What the fuck, Laney—”

It is a waste of oxygen; she is already down the hall and around the corner clutching at her suit and waiting for the adrenaline to die down on its own, red to ear. 

Decking in the halls, indeed.


	2. all the way home i'll be warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three SOLDIERs play in the snow, one for the first time in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day two of the ShinRa challenge, prompt: let it snow.

In a small inn nestled between Modeoheim and Icicle Inn itself are three SOLDIER Third Class; one famous enough to have his face and reputation touted by ShinRa and two others following very quickly in his footsteps. 

Sephiroth stands in the falling snow, a knitted beanie plastering the beginnings of widow’s peak bangs flat against his forehead. Palms open towards the heavens, tiny little snowflakes flutter into his mittens and immediately melt. 

He knows what snow is. He has read about it and sloshed through ice up to his shins, but actually seeing it fall is an entirely different scenario.

He looks to Genesis, a hat of woven red and a matching cozy scarf about his neck. He looks ridiculous, his head tipped back, eyes intensely shut, and tongue out, catching the little crystals. When his eyes open, they meet Sephiroth’s incredulous expression.

“What?” He inquires defensively. “If they haven’t touched the ground then it is sanitary! It is just like catching raindrops in one’s mouth.”

Sephiroth does not inform Genesis that he has never attempted to do anything in the rain except fight the mud sticking to his boots.

“Have you ever seen fresh snowfall?” Angeal’s question is patient, pinpointing why Sephiroth is standing ramrod straight beneath a pine tree instead amidst the flurries like the other pair. His chin is spotty with the beginnings of facial hair, a bit of snow sticking to dark hair.

“No,” He admits after a tick, because it is so alien for someone to ask something of that nature to the imposing, famous SOLDIER. But time after time, he finds himself in situations with the pair from Banora Village that make him question his upbringing inside ShinRa’s walls, and what he missed that the laboratories could not offer.

When a pack of snow splashes against the side of his head, he nearly summons his sword instinctively. It is the rich, melodious laughter that pauses his hand, and it is then that he sees the snow packed into a sphere in Genesis’ hand. 

“Do you know what that means, Angeal?” The question is followed by the answer. “Sephiroth has never been in a snowball fight!” 

Before Sephiroth can shift backwards to withdraw, Genesis’ face is coated in snow, and the low rumbling of a laugh exposes Angeal as the culprit. For a moment Sephiroth just sits back and observes as the pair pelt each other with snow before he crouches down slowly, silently, and shapes a pretty, nearly perfectly round ball in his palm.

“See Sephiroth, it’s—” The snowball hits true, bursting against Genesis’ forehead and speckling his bright red hair with glittering snow.

“I think he gets the idea,” Angeal replies dryly, only to find his shoulder hit with one too.

Then the war begins.

Snow from three different boys-turning-men crash into one another. Trenches are dug, walls are built, but by the end of the fight all three flop into soft snow and stare into the cloudy sky.

“Did you have fun?” Genesis asks, and it is another question that Sephiroth finds foreign.

“I did.” It is a simple answer, with no need to overthink it. The sound of agreement from his right just cements that his response was correct.

“There is one last thing you have to do while the snow is fresh, Sephiroth.”

“... Snowmen?” He has seen remnants of those when he last carved his way through ice.”

“Well… we can build one if you want, but I was thinking of something different.” Genesis arms and legs begin to move until the snow around his body is imprinted with some sort of figure. “Snow angels, Seph. We have to make snow angels together.”

Silver brows furrow, but with both Genesis and Angeal shaping the space around them, hands occasionally awkwardly bumping into his own that he follows suit. When the other two are satisfied, he stops too. The three of them rise from their indentations, carefully stretching their first steps out of the picturesque creation the three have made together.

“Three friends, three pairs of wings. ‘When the war of the beasts brings about the world’s end / The goddess descends from the sky / Wings of light and dark spread afar / She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting.’”

“LOVELESS, prologue,” Sephiroth remarks out of habit. In such a short amount of time he has come to learn Genesis’ favorite poem and its various acts. Genesis always seems pleased when he identifies the snippets. Even now he practically radiates approval, long lashes laced with snow shut and smile wider than usual. Angeal just shakes his head, tolerant, but he wears a smile too.

It is impossible to not mirror the expression on his own face.

“If it snows again tomorrow, we can build a snowman,” Genesis promises. “But for now let us go inside and enjoy some warm cider!” When he starts walking, Angeal follows, leaving Sephiroth standing alone for one moment longer beneath the gently falling flakes.

Sephiroth wants to capture the warmth in his chest in a bottle, but instead the memory will be entombed in a snow globe. _Three friends, three sets of wings._

Sephiroth stares into the clouds with narrowed green eyes, almost demanding an answer to his silent plea. _Let it snow. Please, let it snow._


	3. angels we have heard on high

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> memories interlaced with madness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh. first of all, i'm a day late.
> 
> secondly, i decided this is what Sephiroth's brain sounds like 90% of the time when jenova snatched up his brain so i decided to write this piece as a stream of consciousness. aka, it's a fat mess of stringed words and no punctuation and short. if this isn't your thing, skip it. chapter four should be inbound today on time.
> 
> prompt: ghosts of christmas past

Take the planet it is ours it is mine it is yours we will sit upon it like a throne my son kill her chase her down and kill her she thinks she is a threat so we will eliminate her kill her boxes tied tight with ribbons crimson a big tree decorated in lights no son the brother with cells eliminate him he is nothing he is worthless tear the world asunder shining blinking lights of color snowballs pelting his face it's cold it’s so cold my son listen to the planet as it screams it it is ours we are the last we are one a drink spiked with warm liquor some melodies from firm lips what is a name how worthless is a name he is gone white wings white feathers white snow mother, yes perfect son tear the heavens open red coat some sort of plant a kiss warm scarves laughter gone black feathers matching feathers three sets of matching sweaters my son my son you are so perfect my son, the world it is yours it is ours we are one like mother and son ridiculous stories of reindeer with glowing noses from a low voice reading from anothers gilded book no son you have no use of memories like that they are gone we are new listen to us better have always been better blue eyes full of light at a gift box meticulously picked the pine trees they stand in our way you are new we are new they are ghosts they are gone no more singing no more lights no more chocolate in a cup mine, mine, the planet took it all it is our throne mother yes son we take we take we do not give the time for giving is gone this is ours now the planet is nothing, smash it take it bows on boxes destroy it son.


	4. baby, it's cold outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rufus and tseng find a way to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: up to icicle inn ; kinda deviated from this a bit sorry, but uh, same idea.
> 
> note the change in rating.
> 
> this is pwp and i am unapologetic.

“I hate it here.” 

Tseng glances over to the figure of white outlined by the glow of the sun reflecting off the piled snow outside. Soon it will melt and they can leave the cabin. When he propositioned the President about making the Turks dig them out, the terse, icy response was enough to shelve the idea.

After hours of silence, it is almost odd that Rufus is the one to break it. _Are you positive you do not want the others to dig us out?_ The question festers on the tip of his tongue before he cages it away. If they had access to a shovel inside, the pair of them would have dug them own damn selves out by now.

Rufus’ stubbornness and dedication to his own strength is a testament often better left untouched.

“The snow?” Tseng offers vaguely, pen still moving along the pages as if the interruption did not knock him the slightest bit on the edge.

“No.” This time Tseng does pause and turn in his chair to give Rufus his full attention. That motion itself rings true of inquiry. They have been side by side for quite awhile. Words do not often have to be exchanged.

“Stagnant.” Tseng answers and this time Rufus nods once, jaw tight. No new papers strewn across the presidential desk, no more plots to be outlined in ink and private discussions--cabin fever, the Turk acknowledges. He too is starting to run out of distractions. At this point it is just tweaking busy work.

When he turns away to begin to pile the paperwork once again, a hand slams down over them and he stills, a brow arching inquisitively.

“Entertain me.” It sounds like a command; Tseng knows that it is not. It is a question and an invitation extended to one of the few men he trusts, and it is not unfamiliar territory. Neither of them ever need to play coy or calculative around one another; years and loyalty have eliminated the need for slick behavior.

“Of course,” Tseng answers, though it was just an extra piece of insurance for Rufus to lock behind cool eyes because even he has boundaries.

He is still quite human beneath the layer of ice and Tseng is one of the few to ever witness those moments.

He is about to once again.

There is no need for a bed with perfectly serviable couches. Honestly Tseng lay awake at night wondering if he should go occupy one instead; they are far more comfortable then the old beds. If not for the sudden blizzard--unforcased every time Tseng double-checked in case of a situation like this--he would have arranged much better accommodations for them both. But if Rufus could stand the bed with only a glare at the rickety thing like it personally offended him, then Tseng too could manage.

The Director does not even bother to remove his suit aside from his tie when Rufus motions for it, but Rufus makes himself comfortable and nude like a statue in a museum, and Tseng is determined to watch him _shatter._

“What exactly--” Tseng’s question cuts itself off when the familiar fabric worn around his neck is instead wrung around his eyes. Ah. Now that certainly makes the game interesting, does it not?

He drops to his knees, fleeting relief that the ugly shag carpet is a fine resting place for them, and tilts his head upwards to offer one more statement, already known but better in words. “If you find something amiss, do tell me.” There is a dip in his voice, lower and chocolate-smooth, and he is rewarded with fingers threaded through his hair.

Supplication and worship, those are the words to best describe the way Tseng’s lips brush against the ship angle of a hip bone, how they part to taste and follow the curve, a path marked distinctly towards what Tseng already knows is coming to life. 

But long is the road to paying proper tribute--if Rufus wants to keep him from seeing his reactions visibly, then Tseng is going to make him _sing._

He traces a path with lips as light as morning dew on grass, climbing until he finds the definition of torso that many who do not pay attention might not know existed. That is all well for them both. Someone bold enough to underestimate Rufus’ own power without his men and remaining woman in black suits will find themselves with a bullet in their head faster than they realize their mistake as it is.

Each line is a new altar to worship and the subtle beginnings of an arch is his sacrament. His teeth drag across the second hipbone, a sharp nip earning a yank of his hair. 

Again he traces a familiar line with his tongue before he veers off course, lifting one pale leg over his shoulder. There is a softness there that no amount of training can quite wash away, and there is much to say about boldly rubbing one’s cheek against the inside of Rufus Shinra’s thighs. His lips follow suit, teeth and tongue and just the right amount of suction to earn another yank. The Turk’s lips curl against skin; he left a mark blossoming and by the shift of hips and abrupt catch meticulously steady breaths, Rufus likes it.

More and more, he decorates skin he cannot see. It is a canvas of blasphemy, of sin. His art heresy. But each ragged breath makes his teeth bite sharper, his lips worry softer. He is led by his hair like a chocobo by its reins to the other leg. Tseng easily slips it over his shoulder as well, his worship never ceasing. Oh how satisfying it is to feel Rufus’ hips roll. Like a film reel he replays all the responses he knows by heart. He must be flushed with pink from cheek to cheek, color arching over his nose. He must be biting his lip to keep quiet, but that is a battle lost when Tseng licks a hot stripe all the way to the juncture of his hip. Tseng does not need to see to know. 

When Rufus gives in it is such a fragile thing like blown glass shattered from a small drop. He mumbles his contentment, his praise, his desires, his directions. Tseng breaks too, finally, when he hears just the perfect note of a smother moan and bothers with little preparation to suck the crown of Rufus’ cock into his mouth and let him roll his hips across it, searching for something Tseng dangles playfully out of reach.

One hand sinks between his own legs to fish his cock out of his trousers when they grow too tight around his groin, and that earns a more insistent roll of the cock on the flat of his tongue.

“Don’t you _dare_ come before I do.” Rufus sounds like an animal uncaged and Tseng absolutely loves it, closes his lips around the tip of his cock and nonchalantly plunges to take the entirety of his cock in his mouth, his throat, in one single motion.

Rufus sounds so pretty when he sings.

The grip in his hair keeps him in place, the alternating suction urges the hard thrusts of hips. Of course his eyes tear up beneath the blindfold, even with a gag reflex shaped around Rufus fucking his mouth, but he is providing so well for the man for whom he would die, and pulling him to the brink of desperation is what Tseng enjoys more than any touch.

\--Not that it stops him from touching his cock in tandem, of cupping balls and pressing his thumb in just the right spot that Rufus loses his rhythm. The fast, hard slide of the weight on his tongue and the tightness in his throat is but another song of praise.

Rufus does not warn him, but he needs not to anyway. The end of the music has stopped, the church choir is done singing. Tseng swallows what Rufus leaves behind as gracefully as he moves, drinking it like any other communion cup.

He is vaguely aware that his own hips arch and his hand is coated in the same substance, but his pleasure has always been in cracking the beautiful statue that is Rufus Shinra, and it is a job well done.

His tie is removed with a jerk and he is pulled to press his lips against Rufus’ own. It is a rare show of vulnerability and yet it is still utter perfection.

By the time they have put themselves back together--President and Director and confidants, the euphoria has left them both and Rufus sees hit to lounge on the couch like a coeurl with a fully belly--dangerous, but satisfied and at rest.

The yelp they hear outside, the sudden commotion, makes Tseng pinch the bridge of his nose. At a glacial, accusing look from under blond eyelashes he returns a flat look and a shake of his head.

He did not call them, but the Turks always come for their President and one of their own.

This time, apparently, with a flamethrower to melt the towered snow in front of the door.

From the corner of his eye he sees Rufus smile and Tseng smiles too with a shrug. Professionalism seems to be matched with mischief and by the roll of Rufus’ shoulder and the lazy way he climbs to his feet, Tseng thinks he likes the spice in his life just as much as he does.


	5. hey what's in this drink?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cloud finds out what Firsts are like when they are drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i..
> 
> yeah. someone wanted fluffy (coughs cracky coughs) Zack and jokingly added talking about the US election and i just. took off from there.
> 
> late, technically, but i decided to do the last three prompts leading up to christmas.

It is excessive, to say the least, that ShinRa Electric Company rented out the _entire_ Golden Saucer for their holiday party. Even with each and every member of the company present, there is still a ridiculous amount of space to house even more people, but oh well. At least it allows for Cloud to dip out of uncomfortable social circumstances. 

He finds Zack in the chocobo stables, apparently in an emphatic conversation with one of the pale yellow birds. “Listen, you see, there’s this thing called the Electoral College and sometimes it doesn’t match up with the popular vote--”

“Zack?”

The First turns to face Cloud, maybe a little too quickly, because he has to reach back against the gate to keep himself steady.

“Whoa, Cloud, did you just teleport or are there twoooo of you?” 

The slur to Zack’s words is all Cloud needs to confirm that his friend is drunk. 

Bet it was the punch. One of the secretaries always spikes the punch.

“Zack, maybe you should go rest in your room for a little bit… you’re… kinda wobbling.”

“No waaaay Cloud. The party is just getting started! I don’t wannaaaa miss a minute.”

Cloud does not have it in his heart to tell Zack that most of the party is dying already and the First Class is on the opposite side of the lobby and stage.

“Oh! I gotta call Aaaaarieth, I promised I would.” Before Zack can reach for his PHS Cloud gently takes it. He does not know this ‘Aerith’ girl, but he doubts she would appreciate a call--or worse--from a drunken Zack. He guides him gently by the crook of his elbow too, and faces no resistance,

“Hey Cloud, wouldn’t be like, amazing to ride a dolphin.”

The very idea makes Cloud shiver; surely that would be asking for a bout of motion sickness. “Not into dolphins,” he answers.

It is a little surreal; a little nobody from the security department who made friends with a SOLDIER First Class is the one guiding him back towards the rented rooms amongst the shiny (and a bit tacky) gold. 

Cloud nabs Zack’s keycard nice and easily from his back pocket and softly pushes him into the room and tosses the card like skipping a rock across a lake. Luckily it lands on a table. “Stay here for a bit, okay? Then you can go… think more about dolphins. He leaves the PHS on the counter of the bathroom where Zack was unlikely to immediately find it.

“I’ll um… come back later.” To make sure Zack is either sober or asleep.

Office parties. Wild affairs.


End file.
